


Sort of Out of Sorts

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [43]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Kidnapping, M/M, Peril, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 13:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton doesn’t know where he is.





	Sort of Out of Sorts

Hamilton's first conscious awareness—if he can call it either 'consciousness' or 'awareness'—is a throbbing at the base of his skull. His eyes are too heavy to open and he can't seem to quiet the maelstrom of nausea in his stomach. His mind scrambles, foggy and slippery and whirling, and no matter how he tries he can't seem to find purchase in his own thoughts.

Fear surges in his chest, and he fights it brutally back down. Fear won't help him figure out what's wrong. If he's sick, hurt, lost, he can't do anything until he’s calm—until he can _open his eyes_ and figure out where he is.

The ground is hard beneath him, which means he's not in sickbay. No medical facility in Starfleet's purview would leave him crumpled on his side on the floor, which means he’s somewhere else. The fact that he has no idea _where_—let alone how he arrived here or what he was doing before—tells him caution is vitally necessary.

He remains perfectly still for what feels like an eternity. Breathing steadily enough to maintain the illusion of sleep, as the fog gradually clears. There are murmurs of conversation around him, too quiet for Hamilton to decipher or tell if the voices are familiar. Where is he? Why is his head agony?

Is Washington here too?

The final question strikes him right between his ribs, and the need to _know_ pushes him past the hurt and queasiness. Hamilton swallows and opens his eyes.

He’s surrounded by vaguely familiar faces in a dimly lit space. Prison cell or cave, the floor beneath him is so perfectly smooth he can't tell if it's stone or metal. There's no sign of immediate danger.

The closest murmuring stops.

Hamilton isn't restrained, but the arm trapped beneath him tingles numbly. When he tries to shift his weight and push himself upright, it's anyone’s guess whether the numbed muscles or the resurgence of nausea impedes his efforts more. He tries to keep quiet but a choked sound escapes his throat, and he collapses in on himself.

"Hey, hey, hey," admonishes a soothing voice, high and tenor and smooth. "Don't try and sit up so fast. You've been unconscious for almost six hours."

Hamilton forces reluctant eyes open and manages to turn his aching head just enough to look into the face above him. Noisy as Hamilton's head is right now, it takes him several seconds to scrounge up any insight about who the officer is.

Martin. Joseph Martin. Joey to his friends, of whom Hamilton certainly does not number, though they're on passingly amicable terms. Ensign Martin is a member of Burr's newest security squad, fresh out of the Academy and a couple years Hamilton's junior. This damn treaty negotiation is only the kid's third mission.

Fuck. The treaty negotiation. The compound Hamilton was _not supposed to leave_. What happened, and how the hell did he end up here?

He is careful not to aggravate his pounding head or his roiling stomach as he casts a wider glance around the dark chamber. He sees a dozen people, officers and diplomatic personnel, all sitting upright and looking far more functional than Hamilton currently feels. Most of them are ignoring him, but a couple concerned gazes turn his way. Everyone looks scared and serious and confused.

Hamilton won't make the mistake of trying to rise again, but he pushes himself onto his back with a grunt, taking the weight off his numbed arm. Clearly none of his fellows are medical personnel. Six hours and no one thought to put him in a more comfortable position?

"Where are we, and what the hell happened?" He sounds drunk, the words coming out slurred and slow.

"No one knows where we are. We all woke up in this cell, and we haven't seen anyone from outside."

"I can't remember what happened," Hamilton says. "Or why my head feels like I've been fired from a plasma cannon."

"We were all off duty," Martin says quietly. "Best guess is we were incapacitated by a neural-pulse generator. Or possibly an airborne toxin. No one's injured, just… hurting."

"Hurting," Hamilton echoes. Somehow the word doesn't seem potent enough to cover the sick-shaky-throbbing-spinning agony suffusing him.

He really, _really_ does not want to throw up.

"You must've been closest to the dispersal point," Martin says. "You've been out hours longer than anyone else."

"Is there water?"

Martin gives him an apologetic look. "Sorry, sir."

Hamilton closes his eyes for just a moment. When he opens them again, he puts all the steel he can conjure into his expression.

"Okay." He forces strength into his voice. "Let's find a way out of here."

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Purchase, Fear, Insight


End file.
